


Get Off My Lawn

by Myrime



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bodyguard Steve Rogers, Don't copy to another site, Drinking, Gen, Guns, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, I don't know how to tag this, Misunderstandings, Poor Life Choices, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony is a bit of an ass, Whumptober 2020, at gunpoint, young Tony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:22:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27191675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrime/pseuds/Myrime
Summary: The cold barrel of the gun feels almost nice against Tony’s pounding forehead, and he is not sure anymore whether it is meant as an encouragement to come closer or a warning to stay away. It doesn't matter. He only ever does what he wants anyway.
Comments: 65
Kudos: 108
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ко всем чертям](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27403411) by [Cis_moll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cis_moll/pseuds/Cis_moll)



> For Whumptober Day 3 "Held At Gunpoint"
> 
> This is my excuse for writing Tony being a mess.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> This has a Russian [translation ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27403411) available now by the wonderful [Cis_Moll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cis_moll/pseuds/Cis_moll)!

The pounding in Tony’s head does not stop even long after he has left the club. Not the rhythm of too loud music makes him move his feet but the instinctive knowledge that he will collapse somewhere soon and he desperately wants that place to be his bed. Bad things happen when he lets his guard down – and he could do without the lecture from Howard.

Tony knows the way to the mansion without having to concentrate on where he is going. He has made this trip hundreds of times in various states of inebriation. It does not feel like home but the demons inside are easier avoided than the ones out here.

The gate is closed and the wall of windows is dark, especially the one to Howard’s office. That is no guarantee that the old man is asleep and will not bother Tony, but he sighs in relief nonetheless. The only thing worse than a migraine is Howard’s booming voice increasing the pounding.

Without needing to look, Tony enters the code at the front gate, keeping himself upright by leaning against the cold iron. When the gate suddenly opens, it almost throws him down into the dirt. Tony is not sure he would get up again, so he fights to stay on his feet.

Once inside, he turns towards the garage. The way to his room is shorter from there and he wants to avoid waking his father at all costs. For some reason, only one Stark is allowed to get blackout drunk in this house and that is never Tony. 

Once inside, he does not get far, shocked into a half-sober state by finding a strange man standing there, about halfway between the entrance and the door to the mansion. He is tall and blond and looks like he could break Tony with only one hand. The somewhat official looking, dark outfit makes it unlikely that he is a burglar – and it is well known that breaking into the Stark Mansion usually does not end well for intruders.

A new guard then, Tony guesses. For several years now, Howard has hired bodyguards for Tony, whose task was less to protect him and more to make sure he does not bring more shame down on their name. Needless to say, none of them lasted long.

The man notices Tony as soon as he steps into the garage, probably even before Tony notices his path is blocked. He straightens, which shows off his very nice shoulder line, and one hand goes to the gun on his hip. His posture is not yet threatening but a warning in itself.

“Wrong turn, buddy,” the guard says firmly but without aggressiveness. His voice is a pleasant surprise, not quite soothing Tony’s headache but not aggravating it either. “This is private property.”

A grin steals itself on Tony’s lips. He cannot believe that the new muscle does not recognize him. True, Howard’s features have slackened with the years and too much alcohol, but Tony still looks too much like him. even in ripped clothes. Beyond that, _everybody_ knows Tony. He cannot take a single step outside without someone bothering him. And yet, a guy Howard probably hired to keep him on the right path does not even recognize his new charge. This could be fun.

“My, look at you,” Tony drawls and straightens his spine so he does not look like he will keel over any moment. “Are those muscles real?”

The closer he gets, the more mouth-watering does Hot and Blond look, even when his face darkens and his eyes narrow in indignation. Does Howard hire these people specifically for how easily Tony can bypass their defences?

A name is stitched onto the dark fabric of the uniform. _S. Rogers_. Not that Tony intends to use his real name much. He likes his nicknames.

“Mr. Stark is not entertaining guests tonight,” Rogers says instead of answering, standing much more stiffly now. Almost as if he is trying to take the emphasis off his muscles but managing the opposite entirely.

Tony is now close enough to realize that Hot and Blond does not only look tall but has at least a head over Tony. Leaning against a car, Tony looks him up and down with an openly suggestive grin.

“I’m sure he would like to be entertained by you.”

Perhaps Tony should not make an enemy out of the new guy. No matter that his career here will be a short one, considering nobody has the mental strength to deal with Howard _and_ Tony for any length of time. He could still hurt Tony. The ones who believe they will have him easily in hand are usually the first to run to his father to rain down hell on him. Tony just cannot help himself, though. He is tired of Howard trying to control him, of people thinking they own him.

“Sir,” Rogers says with obvious strain in his voice. “I must ask you to leave.”

It might be an unconscious thing, but he widens his stance, eyes narrowing at Tony as if he is already picking out weak points. Tony _is_ the weak point, the whole disappointing entirety of him.

“Oh, don’t be a bore and let me pass. I feel like puking.”

This would be easy to clear up. He could just tell Rogers his name or they could call for Jarvis. That would be _too_ easy, though, and Tony does not like easy. He wants to know what the people around him are made of, how carefully has to handle them. Howard likes to hire those who are already a little trigger-happy before they ever meet Tony. And Tony, well, sometimes he feels as if he is made of gunpowder, ready to blow up at the first wrong move.

So, Tony does not give his name but just turns towards the door like he has already forgotten all about Rogers. It is a good thing he never let Rogers out of his sight because he has not even made two steps when there is rustling and Tony hears the familiar click of the safety of a gun.

It looks strangely hot, the way Rogers aims the gun at him. The muscles of his arm are much easier to look at. Tony could do without the pained determination on his face, however. If he will be shot in his own home, he wants it to be done with glee, not a tired sense of duty.

Tony stops and turns back fully to Rogers, openly amused at being pointed at with a weapon. The guy _is_ trigger-happy then. Nothing in this situation calls for the use of a gun. Tony is obviously drunk and this guy could break him in half without even trying. It would be easy to simply pick Tony up and deposit him outside of the gate. But, no, Tony does not do as the nice man says and gets a barrel pointed at his face for the trouble.

Heart-rate picking up, Tony thinks that now they are getting somewhere. With just a spark of regret, he realizes he is not drunk enough to deal with this in a sensible way. Here he is, ready to be shot only to see if he can push a stranger into firing.

Perhaps people are right when they say Tony is sick. He should not be drawn to trouble like it is a magnet and he a simple compass needle, and yet that is where he goes all the time. Nobody has ever done it, either, actually pulled the trigger. Well, there was that one kidnapping where Tony got hit by a stray bullet. But, generally, people seem to think he is worth more alive and yet they never do anything to make him feel the same.

A smile spreads on Tony’s lips, growing with every thundering heartbeat. Maybe this is what it means to feel alive. His heart is stumbling, his hands are ready to grab something to fight or defend himself with, excitement stirs in the pit of his stomach – or perhaps that is fear. He does not know. Only that there is undeniably some life inside his body, for once more than just in his mind.

“Do you even know how to use that?” Tony asks and quietly calculates how quickly he would have to move to dodge a bullet fired at him at this distance. He would not make it, of course, but he has always liked numbers.

“I suggest you turn around and don’t try me.” Rogers’ hands remain steady, but, to Tony’s slight disappointment, he does not look like he wants to go through with his threat anymore.

People like this hate others being cocky, so Tony simply shrugs and says with a grin, “I like challenges.”

Then he walks forward, noticing the surprise on Rogers’ face when he manages to walk in a straight line. It also has him tightening his grip on the gun as if he only just realizes that Tony is not as drunk as he seems. Well, he _is_ that drunk, but he knows how to pretend. That is one of the few useful lessons he learned from Howard.

“Come on,” Tony says and keeps walking until the barrel is only inches away from his face. He wonders if it would be cool against his forehead. “Shoot.”

Certainly, there are worse ways to die than getting shot in his own basement, drunk enough that he does not care for all the big and small hurts and disappointments piling up in his chest. It would be unfair to Jarvis, though, who would likely be the one to find him, the only one searching for Tony when he does not come home. That is, if Rogers would not proudly tell Howard that he has successfully eliminated a threat to their great estate. Tony wonders what Howard would do. Fire the guy, surely, but maybe give him a quiet bonus too, for dealing with his perpetual problem.

Nothing happens, so Tony takes the time to look. The guy is hot, more so from up close, even with his pinched expression. Tony wonders what he can do with these hands. That one thought sparks a flood of others, building the ultimate plan for revenge.

Slowly, suggestively, Tony sinks down to his knees. The hands with the gun automatically follow his movement, although it appears like the stranger is not quite aware of it. Like that, he looks far more menacing. His muscles are bigger, the barrel blacker. Tony likes the thrill running through him. It is something to feel other than numbness and disgust.

When he leans forward, his hands on his own knees, Rogers instinctively moves back, although he catches himself quickly.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, all amusement gone from his tone. He still does not make a move to shoot.

“What does it look like, honey?” Tony purrs, enjoying the brief panic flickering over Rogers’ face. Not his area of expertise, then.

Rogers freezes when Tony dips his head forward and muzzles at the crotch right in front of him. For a moment, the air is ripe with possibility. Then the man comes to life with a jerk and, suddenly, the barrel of the gun is pressed against the top of Tony’s head, pushing him away. It _is_ cold, and almost as satisfying as Tony hoped.

“Mr. Stark has tasked me to keep everybody out of his home so I must ask you to leave,” he says, his voice rather pressed. Still, his hands do not waver.

The mere mention of his father has Tony rolling his eyes. It almost takes the fun out of this, but then Tony thinks of how they must look to someone else. He on his knees with a gun to his head, Rogers glaring down at him. If Howard found them, he might put that bullet in Tony’s brain himself.

“Of course, he did,” Tony says and does not hide his derision. “Mr. Stark is a raging homophobe. He’d likely fire you because you haven’t shot me already.” He pushes slightly forward against the barrel to emphasize his point. Then he adds, almost as an afterthought, “Depending on his mood, he’d give you a raise if you got rid of me quietly.”

Indignation passes over Rogers’ face, which disappoints Tony dearly. How does nobody see through Howard’s lies, his pretty façade?

“Mr. Stark is not in the business of hiding bodies,” Rogers replies stiffly.

Sharp laughter claws its way up Tony’s throat and it rings out hollowly in the garage. Their entire company is built on producing dead bodies. Granted, they do not have to hide them because people tend to applaud them for it, but the point stands. 

“You must not have worked for him long then,” Tony says and looks up at Rogers through his lashes the way he knows people like.

Tony has not been home for a few days, but he certainly would have noticed eye candy like this wandering around. Which means he might be in the process of ruining this guy’s first day of work. Well, he will probably thank Tony for that, later. The great Howard Stark is only so nice to look at from a distance.

“Get up,” Rogers then orders, his patience running thin.

Tony grins and moves further in, presses his lips against the dark cloth in front of him. “Oh, don’t worry, he’s almost there.”

Tony knows he has gone too far a split second before Rogers moves. It is like a light switching off behind those blue eyes, making them frost over. One moment, Tony kneels in front of Rogers, ready to end his night with a bang, the next he is face down on the hard concrete, a knee in his back and the gun still too close to his face.

“I said, stop.”

For just a moment, Tony regrets his decision. Being pressed down on the floor, everything becomes too real. But then, that is what he wants, yes? Something real. Not Howards endless expectations for him to be someone else. Not the public’s ever-changing and ever-terrible portrayal of him. Not this carved out path that Tony is supposed to follow. Here he is, utterly human and just one wrong move away from getting some blissful quiet in his head.

He does not want to die, but he does not particularly want to live this life either. Over the years, he has done some stupid things, has even aimed a gun at himself. Nothing compares to the real thing, though. The flutter of his heart, the way time trickles so slowly. Tony thinks he can understand why people throw themselves out of planes or climb mountains without safety gear. He is alive only in this moment when that could quickly change.

“I heard you the first time,” Tony admits without showing any regret. This is his home and Howard taught him how to get what he wants – and he definitely does _not_ want guards following his every step and judging him when he comes home too late or too drunk. It might be unfair that this guy got caught up in this ongoing war between Howard and Tony, but there is no helping it.

“Then I suggest you start listening,” Rogers growls, all out of kindness. “I’ll accompany you outside and you’ll leave without making a fuzz, all right? Then I might not have to tell Mr. Stark about this.”

That last thing is mostly self-defence, Tony knows, but that only makes him pity Rogers.

“You have much to learn if you think you can do anything to make the old bastard happy with you,” he says and means it as honest advice. “Fuck me right here or let me back out into the wild, you’re in for a lecture.”

Tony is not the only reason they never keep their staff long. People simply have enough options these days that they do not have to suffer through Howard’s terrible moods.

“He must be used to dealing with groupies,” Rogers says and does not yet make any move to haul Tony to his feet. He could, easily, and Tony would not mind being manhandled a bit if that would not end up with him back on the street. The whole point of coming through the garage was to not wake up Howard.

“Groupies?” Tony repeats, feeling the urge to laugh again, but he does not get enough air into his lungs for that, pressed to the ground as he is. “Please. The only people willing to kiss Howard’s ass are other corporate idiots or gold diggers.”

And the papers, lately, since they have found a better victim in Tony.

“Well, I don’t have to ask which one you are.”

That stings, strangely. This guy’s opinion should not matter and yet Tony has become overly sensitive to these things, if only because no one ever seems to have anything positive to say about him.

“You’re right, you shouldn’t have to ask who I am,” Tony says and wiggles in Rogers’ grasp until he can look up at him. “I hope you made him pay you in advance.”

Although that is never a problem. Howard might yell and throw around insults, but he always makes sure that people are paid, if only to keep them from talking. The new guy might not know that, however, and Tony is done being generous.

“Are you ready to leave yet?” Rogers asks instead of answering. He looks as done as Tony feels. “I can do this all day.”

Oh, Tony will destroy him. He is basically begging for it. With a small grin, he says, “I’m more interested in what you can do all night.”

“Stop talking.” The disgust flittering over Rogers’ face is sadly familiar, but that does not mean he will not crack.

“I know a way –”

Tony does not get to finish his sentence because the man pulls him roughly to his feet and gives him a shove that almost sends him down to the ground again. He groans in protest as his ribs ring with pain at the impact.

It is definitely time to end the game. Tony wants his bed and an Advil to stave off the headache he feels building behind his temples. He turns around to keep Rogers from ruining his own life any more, but does not get farther than that. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Howard’s voice rings out over the garage, already on the verge of becoming angry. Depending on how much he heard, Tony will need more than an Advil to get through the night.

“Sir –” Rogers says but cuts himself off when Howard shushes him. He stiffens briefly, then straightens as if he wants to salute. The gun is back in its holster, and Tony wonders when that happened, but it is probably better for both their sakes if Howard does not know that Rogers pulled a gun on his son.

Tony turns to fully face his father – and show off his rather indecent clothes. They are not too revealing but still not befitting a Stark out in public.

“Just testing out the new guard dog, daddy dearest,” he drawls while keeping Rogers in the periphery of his vision.

The change on Rogers’ face is a revelation in itself. He looks between Howard and Tony, must see the likeness between them, and realizes how gravely a mistake he has made. It all plays out perfectly on his face, all his emotions displayed clearly.

“You are a disgrace, boy,” Howard snaps. These words have stopped hurting around the hundredth time he has heard them. “I should let him throw you out.”

He has done so before. Locked the doors and refused to let Tony in. “But you’re too afraid of which bed I’d end up sleeping in,” Tony replies sweetly. That was a hard lesson for Howard.

He must remember it too, because his face darkens further. “Get inside.”

Since he did not say _Get in my office_ , maybe Tony cat get away with locking himself in his room while Howard deals with Rogers – who stands nonplussed in the background, likely not understanding the animosity between father and son. They are so similar, after all, and yet poised to destroy each other instead of conquering the world together.

“Don’t fire this one,” Tony says and pats Rogers’ chest as he passes him. “He wasn’t going to let himself be bought.”

That is as much of an argument he can offer on Rogers’ behalf. It is unlikely that Rogers will keep this job for long, but Tony does not want to get him fired the first time they met.

“What use is a bodyguard if he doesn’t recognize his charge?” Howard says, the words full of derision, but that is still directed at Tony.

“Well, you always say I’m nothing like a Stark, so you can’t fault him too much.” He should not sound so happy about this, should not reject the Stark legacy so often in front of his father. This is a cage, though, and he will keep rattling at the bars until they finally give.

“Get out of my sight.”

“Gladly,” Tony says and means it. A dismissal is the best ending for this night. Since there is always a little demon riding on his shoulder, however, Tony turns towards Rogers again. “Good night, gorgeous. And do come by my room if you want to get to know me better. Just so we can avoid you mistaking me for an intruder again.”

It is unfair to stab at someone who cannot fight back, not with Howard watching them, but Tony is all out of sympathy for the night.

“Good night,” Rogers says with beet-red cheeks. Belated, he adds, “Sir.” It does not sound very sincere but it has Tony smirking. This one really will be fun. It Howard does not fire him on the spot. Tony might look for him in the morning. He bets those muscles look even better in sunlight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, this is all I managed to write until today (I haven't edited it and I feel very much out of practice), but I've got enough notes for at least another chapter.  
> Also, I'm on vacation this week in the middle of the forest without internet access. So I'll have a lot of time to write. 
> 
> Enojy!

Rogers is still there the next morning and he looks just as impressive while Tony is sober. Sunlight does make some things better, even if it increases the pounding in Tony’s temples. He sticks to the shadows, hidden where he can drink in the view of Rogers standing in the foyer, probably waiting for Howard. Despite their scuffle the night before, he looks like nothing happened, like he did not even lose any sleep over almost killing his boss’ son. That is not something Tony can let stand, considering the revelation he had the night before, the enticing danger that shook him wide awake.

Just when Tony intends to go forward and have a little fun, however, a hand falls on his shoulder.

“Anthony,” his father says, sounding already displeased. “We need to talk.”

Nothing good has ever come of that, but what is Tony to do but to follow? It is a miracle he managed to avoid a lecture the night before, but Howard’s memory is long and he would never pass an opportunity to tell Tony what a terrible son he is. Habit, and all that.

They do not go all the way to Howard’s office but duck into the sitting room. That is a good sign, at least, because Howard likes to stand on ceremony and prefers to be in his own kingdom when he really lays into Tony. Still, his face is dark, twisted in grim anger.

“You will leave Rogers alone,” Howard snaps without bothering to ease into this. He whirls around and pushes the door shut, standing too close to comfort. Stepping back, however, would mean admitting defeat already.

For once, at least, Tony is aware of what he has done wrong. These talks are much harder when Howard is simply sick of seeing his sorry excuse of a son and Tony has no idea what is coming.

What he does not understand is why Rogers is so important. This is not just Howard being furious at Tony for acting out and behaving improperly. Instead, he is angry on Rogers’ behalf. And that is not something that happens ever. The most important person in Howard’s life is Howard himself. Everything is supposed to run according to his wishes and needs. Everybody else is just a speck of dust in his grand palace of self-importance.

“Will I now?” Tony asks, even while knowing that open disobedience never bodes well. But he is curious – and hurt too, that a stranger has apparently earned more of Howard’s consideration than Tony has managed to in a lifetime. “Here I thought you might care more that he almost shot me yesterday.”

“Because you provoked him,” Howard replies without pause, not even blinking at the thought.

“I was trying to get into my own house,” Tony says, ignoring the bitter taste on his tongue. This is just Howard saying he would have deserved that bullet, simply for existing.

Howard cannot have seen much of what was going on before Rogers pushed Tony to the ground or they would have another discussion altogether. It is bad enough that Tony likes to sleep around, but adding men to the mix is too much. If Jarvis is to be believed, Howard had a different woman on his arm every week too when he was younger. But, well, there must be some twisted reason why it is not okay when Tony does it too.

“It’s _my_ house,” Howard says and Tony should have seen that coming. Useless sons, after all, don’t deserve anything.

“I live here, too.” It is a futile argument, but some part of Tony is still desperate to hear his father admit that he is wanted here. Or that he has at least a right to be here.

Instead, Howard scoffs and looks him up and down like he is something dirty. “Only because who knows what damage you’d do out there.”

Damage to their precious name, Howard’s legacy. It is rotten already, but everything people care about is the shiny outside, the picture-perfect fantasy the press talks about.

Despite knowing it will only make him look petulant, Tony crosses his arms in front of him. “I’m only following in your footsteps.”

That would usually earn him a slap or two. Because how dare he insinuate he is anything like Howard? But all Howard does is sneer at him.

“Quiet, boy,” he says, as if every word Tony says is just a waste of air. “Rogers is off-limits.”

It sounds almost like Howard cares. Like he is not just interested in not having to find another bodyguard so soon but actually wants to keep Rogers around.

“Why?” Tony asks, wondering how someone he has never heard of before last night could have managed to get into Howard’s good graces. He tried all his childhood and never even got close.

“Because he is a good man,” Howard replies and leans forward enough that Tony can clearly see the small vein pulsing on his temple. “And you ruin everything you touch.”

That should not hurt. Over the years, Howard has hurled worse things at him than that, worse things than mere words. And yet the sheer confidence of how his father says them carves another deep wound inside his chest, perfectly parallel to all the others he has gathered over his lifetime.

Worthless. Waste of space. Disappointment. Incapable of building even the simplest things. And now, it seems, ruining everything he touches.

It is not true. He does not – he fixes things. Projects Howard discarded. Problems Obie comes to _him_ to fix. He builds things other than weapons, things that bring joy. He makes sure Aunt Peggy gets flowers each year for her birthday even when Howard forgets and that someone picks her up from the airport when she visits. He goes to the graveyard with Jarvis to visit Ana and makes sure not to be a bother on the days Jarvis looks sad.

Contrary to Howard, Tony _cares._

He _could_ ruin things, though. All his life he has been taught to destroy. Rogers would not know what hit him, and all the nice muscles in the world would not save him.

Careful to keep his face neutral, Tony turns to leave. What else is there to say.

“Boy,” Howard calls, clearly not yet done with his lecture. “I’m talking to you.”

“And I’m hearing you.” And Tony really does. He never had much standing in this house, but he will not let himself be run off completely by Howard’s new pet soldier.

Minutes later, Tony leaves the sitting room with a bruise blooming on the right side of his face and the burning need for petty vengeance growing in his chest. He almost felt bad for Rogers the night before because he knows he can be too much and it was wrong to push Rogers like that. Now, however, he is past that weakness. Now, they are at war.

* * *

As soon as the front door slams shut, Tony goes to find Jarvis. Before he does anything else, he needs more information. Rogers cannot have appeared out of nowhere, since Howard is not the type to trust easily, much less to extend something like friendship. Jarvis is one of those people, although their relationship has cooled somewhat over the years, and he is much more likely to know something.

He finds Jarvis in the kitchen, drinking tea while he reads the papers. His smile slips when his eyes fall on Tony’s right cheek.

“Master Tony, what happened?” He stands up immediately as if there was some danger he could protect Tony from.

The question is futile, of course. They both know what happened, as well as they know it will happen again.

“Who is Rogers?” Tony asks instead of acknowledging the blooming bruise.

Dismay flickers over Jarvis’ face and Tony is sure that is more because he changed the topic not because of Rogers. Jarvis makes a habit of not disliking people, or at least to not show his real feelings. Even when Tony brings home one-night stands when Howard is away, and he has to serve breakfast to some simpering girl or obvious gold digger. Once Tony realized that, he had a near crisis, worrying Jarvis was only pretending to like him, too. Howard pays him, after all. By now, he is mostly over that.

“You split your lip,” Jarvis says once he has his face back under control.

Tony scoffs. “I didn’t do anything. I guess my face was simply in Dad’s way.” He shrugs even though he cares more than he lets on. It does not help, though, lingering on the inevitable. Howard will always despise him, as surely as the earth circling around the sun.

“I wish you wouldn’t provoke him,” Jarvis says with a sigh, still standing awkwardly but not coming closer to Tony yet.

“My very existence provokes him.” Tony cannot help the irritation rising up inside him. It is not his fault that Howard would sooner choose anybody else in the world over him. Or maybe it is his fault. In all his years he has not found a cure, though. “Now, who’s Rogers.”

He has more important things to worry about than his father’s perpetual dislike of him.

“He is Mr. Stark’s new bodyguard,” Jarvis says. He at least sounds like he has no idea what happened the night before. If he did, Tony hopes, he would not be so neutral. At least someone in this house should have his back. “He was in the Army before.”

That makes sense, considering the way Rogers looks and how at ease he was with using his gun. It still does not explain what he is doing here.

“So, he’s not here for me?” Tony asks, only slightly disappointed.

He does not like people following him around, especially not for his supposed protection. They never last long but are a bother while they are there. Things might have been different with Rogers, though. He might have had some fun before Rogers quit.

“I don’t think so,” Jarvis says slowly as he cocks his head to the side. He clearly realizes something is going on. Usually, Tony is not interested in whatever new hire walks through their house before they get replaced.

“And it’s just one poor guy against everybody who wants Dad’s blood?” Tony shrugs, putting on an air of nonchalance. If Jarvis finds out what he is doing, he will try to stop him. “He won’t last long.”

With a frown, Jarvis says, “It might be best if you kept your distance.”

First Howard, now Jarvis. Something is up with Rogers and everybody knows but Tony. Howard does not have friends, so what is so special about a simple ex-soldier?

“Don’t worry, J,” Tony dismisses easily, already distracted. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Tony –”

But Tony is already leaving. He usually does not have patience for riddles, but what else is he to do if one is placed directly in front of him. Especially one he has a bone to pick with?

“See you later,” he calls out as vanishes into the hall. “I gotta find some ice for my eye.”

* * *

Later that day, Tony runs into Rogers completely by accident on his way to the workshop. He is still annoyed at having gotten no answers out of Jarvis and has not even had time yet to think of an attack plan. Yet, he will not let this opportunity pass by unused. He is very glad that he covered up that blooming bruise. That would certainly raise questions he does not care to answer.

Rogers’ steps slow when he sees Tony, looking like he wants nothing more than to simply nod in greeting and keep walking. Considering the way their last encounter went, Tony cannot even fault him for that. That is still not what is going to happen.

“You are still here,” Tony says loudly, with enough cheer that it could almost mask the way he is looking Rogers up and down.

If the way Rogers’ eyes narrow slightly, he definitely did not miss it. “I must apologize for the other night,” he says anyway, stiffly but, as far as Tony can tell, honestly.

As a Stark, he does not have much experience with honesty. Only, of course, if he ignores all his little talks with Howard when nobody else is watching.

“Pray tell, what for?” Tony asks, concentrating on the task at hand. Thinking of his father always makes him bitter, but he has more important matters to deal with. “Calling me a groupie and refusing me entry into my home? Not recognizing me _is_ a serious crime, I know.”

A hint of red colours Rogers’ cheeks and it looks even better now than it did in the cold light of the garage.

“No, when I – after that.”

The stammering could be funny, but Tony is looking for something more proactive. Some visceral reaction he can exploit.

“Oh, when you refused to have a good time?” he asks, coking his head to the side. “We all suffer from lapses of sanity from time to time.” With a leer, he adds, “No worries, the offer still stands. We can go up to my room right now and pick up where we left.”

And what a spectacle that would be. Howard would be furious, but that is nothing more than he deserves for bringing someone into the house and telling Tony he is off-limits.

“Wh- That’s not –” Rogers closes his eyes briefly, taking a moment to gather himself. Then his expression clears and while he is still blushing it has lost its effect. “I’m sorry that I pulled my gun on you.”

It sounds strange. Nobody has ever apologized to Tony for almost or actually harming him. Kidnappers rarely get the chance and the people who are hoping to otherwise get something out of him are usually just angry they missed their chance. Tony is used to being collateral damage. For once, he does not want an apology but for someone to scratch that itch the danger has awakened in him.

Tony purses his lips as he looks up at Rogers through his lashes. “You could make it up to me-”

That was too much, he knows that even before Rogers takes a startled step back.

“I don’t like what you’re insinuating,” Rogers says, cold where he was flustered only a moment ago. “I’m here to protect you and your father. Nothing else.”

Well, Tony did not expect it to be that easy. There is no going back now, though, so he just smirks and asks, “What if I do need protection? There’s often terrible noises in my room at night. Moaning and slapping. You should really check it out. Wouldn’t want to fail your duties, right?”

This time, the blush is not just from embarrassment but mounting anger too. Tony knows the look well and he relishes it here. If he has to annoy Rogers into acting out, he can do so. Easily.

“Mr. Stark –” Rogers begins but Tony cuts him off by clicking his tongue.

“Call me Tony,” he all but orders with his most winning smile.

Rogers clenches his jaw. That is a tell right there. “I need to get back to work now, _Mr. Stark_ ,” he says stiffly, standing straight as if expecting a blow.

Tony does not like that look. It feels too familiar, but if it gets him where he wants to be, he will ignore it.

“Well, you know where to find me.” With a mock-salute, he sends Rogers off.

Tony does not know what he is doing. He has been taught how to navigate people and their moods, how to make others happy, how to always know where all the exits are. He does not like pain and he is not suicidal, and yet Rogers and his gun are calling out to him – and they did so even before he knew Howard somehow likes this stranger more than his own son.

It makes no sense. Objectively, he knows it was fear, the way his heart sped up and his palms grew sweaty and the only thing that existed in the world was that barrel against his forehead. He should want to put that incident far behind him. And yet.

He has had guns pointed at him before by people who wanted money or vengeance. None of those times felt like this. The danger reminded him that he is alive and wants to stay that way, yes, but it was not thrilling in the same way. Like he was in control and Rogers was merely his instrument.

All of this is nonsense, Tony knows that. Yet, even as he watches Rogers walk away, he is certain he will try again. He will push Rogers until he snaps and then Tony will either be able to bury this new obsession or – well, he will deal with that if it gets that far.

* * *

It is surprisingly hard to sneak up on Rogers. For a man that big, he does not only move very quietly, he is also far too attentive. Either he has a sixth sense that tells him where everybody around him is, or Tony is just clumsy. Tony does not usually mind when people know he is coming, but Rogers gets that pinched expression every time they meet that irks Tony as much as it is strangely satisfying.

Tony’s mission, for now, is to make Rogers lose control. Just a little slip in composure would be enough, for it would tell him where to dig deeper.

One night, when he is certain that Howard is busy in the workshop and Jarvis is nowhere nearby, Tony waits for Rogers just off the main hall and steps out the moment Rogers is past him.

“That thing with the gun,” he starts without ceremony, satisfied when Rogers starts a little before turning around, “do it again.”

By the time Rogers faces him, his expression is already carved from stone, impassive but for the slightest glint of annoyance in his eyes.

“What?” Rogers asks, clearly hoping that Tony will change the topic.

That is not what they are here for, though. Tony wants to know what is so special about Captain Steve Rogers that Howard seems to actually like him. And if he ends up making his own life more exciting in the process, he will gladly take the chance.

“In the garage, you –”

“With all due respect,” Rogers cuts him off, clenching his teeth. “What you did in the garage was absolutely mental.”

Tony grins, wide and careless, as he steps closer to Rogers. They have not been this close since that night, and it is thrilling to have Rogers towering over him.

“You don’t respect me, so don’t pretend,” Tony says and for once he is not bitter about it.

He does not want Rogers’ respect, not when it was bought by his father’s money. Not when he is desperate for some actual human interaction, even if that ends with him down on the floor again. Especially if it does. People disrespect him all the time but few are honest about it. Few do it because of who he is instead of just his name. 

“I –” Rogers begin and seems to straighten his back even more as if he is preparing to apologize. That will not do at all.

“No, I like it,” Tony says as he leans forward, close enough that it would look as if they are sharing secrets. “My father hates me, the press is watching me like a hawk to exploit my flaws. But you –” he shrugs, unsure how to explain that Rogers somehow got through to him. He is not stupid enough to tell him that having a gun pressed against his forehead made him feel alive. Or, worse, that he craves to have that feeling again, to, just for a moment, have his heart beat with more intent than to just keep his body running.

Tony does not do honesty. That has never ended well for him, and he doubts Rogers would be any more inclined to help him out if he knew what he was getting into. This is not normal. People like to be safe and, well, Tony should not complain. Few people would not want his life. Living in a mansion, having enough money that he would never have to work a single day in his life. More than that, he has found a passion in creating things, even if those things are not always what his father wants him to build.

He has more than enough, and yet he feels empty. A gun pointed to his head will not change that, but at least it might make him re-evaluate that what he has is not all bad.

“I don’t think it’s appropriate for us to have this conversation,” Rogers says stiffly and takes a step back to bring some distance between them.

He looks calm, but his hands are half-clenched and his eyes are cold. So, it is possible to wear him thin. For all that Tony has never wanted for anything, he can be patient when he needs to be. And if he knows one thing, it is that people always get tired with him sooner rather than later.

“Do you always hide behind rules?” Tony asks and clasps his hands behind his back, looking up at Rogers as if he is a particularly interesting exhibit in a museum.

All of a sudden, Rogers looks tired, like it is wearing him thin to be here. “I’d appreciate keeping this job,” he says with surprising vehemence.

Tony wonders whether his father managed to actually inspire loyalty in Rogers, or whether Rogers just really needs whatever Howard is paying him.

“Why?” he asks, actually curious. “It can’t be pleasant to follow Howard around all day. To watch him drinking and descending into madness.”

Rogers does not seem the type to suffer through Howard’s presence just for money. It did not even occur to Tony to be interested in Rogers as a person, mostly because employees in this house come and go too quickly for him to keep up, but Rogers seems adamant not to let him do too much damage.

Whatever little moment they had passes quickly and Rogers looks impassive again. It is impressive, really, how he refuses to let Tony annoy him.

“It’s not my place to judge my employers,” Rogers says and turns to leave, He obviously thinks this is over, even though Tony has not yet fully started. 

“And yet you judge me,” he snaps at Rogers’ back, satisfied when Rogers’ steps falter. Since he is not interested in a false apology, however, he adds, “What if I ordered you into my room right now and demanded we continue this there?”

When Rogers looks at him, his face is so full of derision that a shiver runs down Tony’s back and his fingers tingle with the need to reach out.

“I would call that sexual harassment,” Rogers says, his voice tightly controlled.

Almost there, Tony thinks, just another little push. Once day he might worry about his need to get himself into trouble but not today. He takes a step forward, swings his hips a little too obviously, and asks, “But what would you _do?_ ”

For a long moment, the air is ripe with possibility, making Tony think he has finally gotten somewhere, even if he is not sure where that is.

Then, however, Rogers shakes his head, once more with disgust. “I would bid you a good night, _sir_ ,” he says and walks away.

* * *

“Hey, Steve-o.”

It gets harder to find Steve when he is not at Howard’s side. At first, he looked like a creature of habit, being in the same place at the same time every day. Perhaps Tony is already getting to him if he is changing up his routine. It is a good thing, too, that Tony prefers to work at night, so he can spend all his days stalking Rogers.

“Mr. Stark,” Rogers greets, already sounding tired.

They are skirting dangerous territory here. After all, Tony wants Rogers outraged, not whatever this is. People lose interest in him too quickly, and just because Rogers cannot run away if he wants to keep his job, he can still shut Tony out.

“I told you to call me Tony,” he corrects cheerfully and sidles up next to Rogers, not caring where they are walking to.

Howard is not in the house and while it seems strange to Tony that he did not take his new bodyguard with him, he can use it to his advantage.

“And I told you it would be inappropriate,” Rogers replies flatly without ever looking at Tony. He also quickens his step just so that it becomes uncomfortable for Tony to keep up without forcing him to jog.

“The offer still stands to show you the real meaning of that.”

Tony is not after sex. It certainly would not be a hardship to sleep with Rogers and it is the easiest topic to rile him up with, but Tony could go out any time he wants and have ten willing partners to choose from. Until he has found a real weak spot, he will just have to needle Rogers with the same old weapons.

“Was there anything you need?” Rogers asks, still impossibly polite.

Tony makes a show out of looking Rogers up and down, so that Rogers has to notice even if he keeps his eyes stubbornly ahead. He watches the way Rogers’ muscles bulge under his uniform, how he takes in a deep breath as if to steel himself for the inevitable proposition.

“I just don’t know what you’re doing here,” Tony says instead. It is not good to become predictable.

And he really is interested in the answer. Even if Howard likes Rogers, he is not the type to keep people around just like that. Something is going on and Tony does not know what it is.

Rogers glances at him with irritation. It lasts only for a fraction of a moment and yet it feels like a victory. “Your father hired –”

“Yes, yes,” Tony cuts him off impatiently. “But why go from active duty to this?”

He has done his research. Rogers rose through the ranks quickly despite being prone to insubordination when it comes to people being in danger. It all sounds very noble. And it certainly does not make sense that someone like that would come to work for an arms dealer. Surely, one grows tired of war.

When Rogers does not answer, Tony adds, “It must be terribly boring to stand around all day and watch the old man drink.”

“Your father must have some reason to think he’s in need of protection.”

That sounds perfectly ominous, and while Tony is sure Rogers only said it to avoid talking about anything personal, something about that answer kindles a little flame of worry in Tony’s stomach There is always someone grabbing for the Stark fortune or their intellectual property, of course, but he is not sure his father would tell him if there was a reason to really be concerned. They are hardly ever on speaking terms, after all, and Howard thinks him incapable in all things. But surely Tony would have heard something if anything sinister was going on. Perhaps he will ask Jarvis later. He, at least, is invested in Tony’s safety.

“Or maybe he’s decided to ignore his homophobic side and hired some eye candy,” Tony says, bringing them back on track with too much forced cheer in his tone. This is his game and he does not want Rogers to throw him off it.

Rogers stops walking abruptly to glare at Tony. Another victory. “That’s not –”

Feeling bold, Tony puts a hand on Rogers arm, noticing the tension in the muscles beneath the fabric. “You could do so much better than him,” he coos, filled with a satisfaction that only grows when Rogers shakes him off.

“I must ask you to stop, _sir_ ,” Rogers bites out, looking strangely undone by that short interlude. Perhaps Tony is finally getting to him.

Tony merely grins and leans forward. “You don’t know me at all if you think that’ll happen.”

It is like someone flipped a switch. Rogers grows from flustered to defiant, his expression settling into a scornful frown.

“Your father warned me that you are a degenerate and don’t care for anybody but yourself, but I’m telling you right now that I’m not interested in being part of whatever inane plan your hatching in your head.” He never grows loud, but his voice is sharp and full of conviction, almost like he held out hope until now that Tony is not what people say he is and finally let go of that illusion.

A thrill of excitement runs through Tony. That is the closest Rogers has come to losing his temper. Days of needling him, of the same endless questions and doubts of his usefulness here, and finally Tony gets a reaction. The words sting a little, since Rogers says them with enough conviction that it sounds like he is not just parroting Howard but actually thinks they are true. That is nothing new, though. He is not here to make friends but to chase what else Rogers has to offer.

“Or?” Tony asks, tapping his foot in impatience. If only they could get past the insults and on to the fun stuff.

“What?” Rogers snaps, obviously surprised that Tony is still not letting go.

“That sounded like an _or else_ ,” Tony explains, very aware of his heartbeat. He grins up at Rogers and adds, “Will you pull your gun on me again and push me to the ground?”

For just a second, it looks like Rogers contemplates doing just that. Then, sadly, he exhales sharply and brings his hand up to rub the bridge of his nose as if to fend off a growing headache.

“What do you want from me?” Rogers asks, back to being tired.

 _I want to feel alive_ , but Tony cannot say that. Before he can find another response, though, Rogers shakes his head and somehow finds his composure again. Disappointment hits Tony like a punch in the gut.

“On second thought, I don’t care. You’re obviously sick,” Rogers says, nonchalant enough that the words truly hit home. “I’ll get back to work. Don’t talk to me again.”

If he were anybody else, Tony might feel bad for Rogers. This just pushes him forward, though. He does not just let go of something without getting what he wants first. Even though he is not even sure what is driving him towards Rogers, who is clearly uncomfortable with what is happening – and Tony does not do that. He has been on the other end of that game too often himself, having been needled and pushed until he gave into something he did not want. This is not him.

And yet he cannot help but replay that moment in the garage, how Rogers had looked at him and talked to him before he knew who Tony was. That does not happen often. And then – the gun. The hands on him, manhandling him so easily, rendering him helpless with barely any effort. If Tony wanted violence, he would just have to go out drunk and wait in some back alley or in the darkest corner of some club. Instead, he finds himself wanting Rogers.

Rogers is probably right, Tony _is_ sick. But he is also desperately trying to get out of his head, this life. If only for a little while.

That is not something he can just ask for, though. He cannot go up to Rogers and ask him to pretend to shoot him. _That_ would be sick. And it would take the danger out of it. Tony wants his heart to beat wildly and his legs to freeze in place. He wants to be uncertain if there is really a bullet coming for his brain because he does not remember when he has last felt that present in reality, removed from the numbness of everyday life.

So, he _has_ to push Rogers – who, to be honest, might not want Tony to annoy him, but he is surely already halfway to wanting to shoot him. In the end, this might become a win-win situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in the middle of the forest. We've had fog four days out of five and today it's snowing. Could be a worse vacation.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

It has become a sport, finding Rogers and pushing him until he turns either beet red from embarrassment or cold and clipped. Whenever their eyes meet, Rogers stiffens and Tony counts that as a personal victory because, for once, he is not the only one haunted in this house, expecting trouble around every corner. This is probably very petty of him, bringing his own terror down on somebody else, but Tony is not a good person. Everybody knows that by now.

Rogers tries his best to stay out of Tony’s way but he does not know this house as well as Tony does, so he never stood a chance. Which is why Tony is surprised when he finds Rogers one afternoon standing idly in one of the halls close to the kitchen, looking almost like he is waiting for something, even though he is here to protect Howard, who is nowhere to be seen. Whatever the reason, Tony will not let this opportunity pass. He is on a mission, after all.

“Capsicle,” he says by way of greeting as he saunters close.

Rogers expression stills, stuck between confusion and dread. “What did you call me?” He usually tries to avoid conversation by now, walking past Tony with straight shoulders whenever they happen to meet.

With a wide grin, Tony looks up at Rogers. He is proud of that one, having thought of it just the night before.

“Capsicle,” he repeats, not trying to hide how smug he feels. “You know, because you’re so cold-hearted and a Captain. Fits perfectly.”

Closing his eyes briefly, Rogers does not respond. He clenches his jaw, though, in that stubborn way that means he is doing his best to hold on to his composure. They are getting to this point quicker every time by now.

“If you –” Tony starts but does not get any farther.

“Anthony,” his father’s voice cuts him off, sounding far too close for comfort. Now it is Tony who wishes he had stuck to his routine and had not ventured out of his way just to terrorize Rogers. “In my office.”

Howard stands just at the corner of the hallway, too far from his office to make any sense. It is not like he usually goes to the kitchen himself when he needs something. Something about this situation seems staged, the way Rogers simply stood there like bait, with Howard conveniently close. But Howard is not one for subterfuge.

Yet, here they are. This is not the kind of danger Tony aimed for. He feels trapped between Rogers, who has notably relaxed now that a saviour has arrived, and Howard, who already looks beyond furious. The right side of Tony’s face is still sore and makeup can only do so much. He is not particularly eager to reacquaint himself with his father’s anger.

“I haven’t done anything,” Tony says, holding his hands up in front of him like a shield. Too late he thinks that looks like an admission of guilt. “Captain Rogers and I were simply having a friendly chat.”

It takes effort not to look at Rogers pleadingly. Rogers does not owe him anything, much less kindness. And if this was staged, no help is coming for him anyway.

“You never _just_ do anything, boy,” Howard sneers and comes just close enough that Tony can see the vein on his temple, the red creeping up his father’s neck. “And Steve told me you keep bothering him. This stops now.”

A stab of betrayal runs through Tony that has him glaring at Rogers – who has the audacity to look surprised. So, this _was_ staged. Rogers could not take Tony’s ribbing anymore, and instead of simply giving in and teaching Tony some manners himself, he ratted Tony out to the real monster in this house.

Tony wanted danger but not the kind where he needs to keep his guard up at all times and might still walk away from with broken bones.

“I didn’t –” Tony begins, not sure whether to apologize. It does not matter anyway because he is guilty and everybody here knows it.

“My office,” Howard orders and turns around, trusting that Tony will follow. It is not like Tony has anywhere to hide, and the longer he waits, the worse it will be.

Tony feels his shoulders sag in resignation before he manages to straighten his spine. A show of pride has never saved him, but Howard loathes cowards, so Tony had better enter his office with his head held high.

He does not look at Rogers as he walks past him towards his doom, although he feels Rogers’ eyes following him. They have drawn clear lines now. Tony went too far and Rogers defended himself. He wonders whether Rogers will feel justified, later.

“Sir,” Rogers calls out after them, never clarifying who he means. It does not matter anyway because nobody answers him.

* * *

No broken bones this time, although Tony’s ribs are throbbing with pain and he can barely breathe through the blood clogging his nose. A few hits, fewer kicks, but a lot of words aimed right where they hurt the most. Tony should really be immune to those by now, but people always said he is weak.

It is dark outside by now, which is a small mercy because that means Tony can hide away in his room without having to sit through an awkward dinner or pretend to get any work done in the workshop. All he wants is to curl up in his bed and forget that Rogers ever existed.

Howard made his point very clear this time, enough so that not even Tony will go against it. Rogers is the better man, worth more than Tony could ever be.

_I wish you’d be even half the man he is_.

It is not like Tony has heard that one for the first time. There is always someone smarter or stronger than him, always someone who would have been a better son. But those are usually the sons of rich business partners, not a random soldier who just turned up at their house one day.

The way to his room is too long, each step jostling his ribs. Tony does not look where he is going but simply concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other.

He does not see Rogers next to his door until he almost stumbles into him, and by then it is too late to straighten his posture or hide his face. At the very least he should wipe off the blood, but he cannot do that without drawing attention to it. Perhaps Rogers is here to see just that, to make sure that justice was indeed served.

It certainly has, and Tony is not in the mood for another lecture. He learned his lesson, and he does not want Rogers to lay into him now. They are past that.

Rogers’ eyes are wide when Tony looks at him. Definitely the unpleasant kind of surprised. What did he think would happen after tattling to Howard? It does not matter. Tony has been manhandled enough for one night, and now he just wants to go to bed without further complications.

“What –” Rogers begins and reaches out as if to stop Tony from passing him by.

Tony has a lot of practice dodging grabbing hands, however, and being a little dizzy does not hinder him. “Captain,” he says, for once not mocking but without any inflection at all.

Not caring that it will look like he is fleeing, Tony widens his step and vanishes into his room without another glance at Rogers. Once the sturdy wood is between them, Tony leans against it and exhales in relief. His room is not any safer than the rest of the house, but at least he is alone here for the moment.

He is not sure what Rogers is doing outside, but he is not particularly interested in finding out. This is what he deserves, he supposes, for not leaving the poor man alone. Lesson learned.

Perhaps he should apologize. He knows what it is like to be harassed, after all. Only nobody ever comes to his rescue.

No, Rogers got his wish. Tony does not have to humiliate himself any further by admitting he still needs his father to knock some sense into him. And it is not like they will see much of each other now that Tony knows to stay away.

* * *

That is not what happens. The next morning, when Tony gets down to the kitchen for breakfast, he finds Rogers waiting for him instead of a much-needed cup of coffee. Tony stops short in the doorway, wondering whether that is some new kind of torture. Perhaps Howard is lurking around another corner. Or Rogers simply wants to test Tony’s resolve to stay away. If so, this is not a good tactic.

Also, strangely, Rogers looks like Tony feels. Tired and worn out, like he has not slept at all. Only he is apparently not proficient enough in applying makeup to make himself look like he is human anyway.

“Captain,” Tony greets and makes a beeline for the coffee. He has earned that. It should not take him long to get a cup and disappear into his workshop. It is not _his_ fault if Rogers gets in his way. He has never been down in the kitchen in the mornings until now.

“Tony,” Rogers says and it has Tony’s hackles rising. How did Rogers get the impression that he is suddenly allowed to use Tony’s given name? “I didn’t know he would do this.”

The coffee momentarily forgotten, Tony whips around. _Do what?_ he wants to ask, because this is not something he ever talks about. Who would believe him anyway? The great Howard Stark, genius and business man, would never beat his prodigy son. Right? Rogers has seen more of Howard than people usually do, however, heard him talk to Tony, watched him drink himself into a belligerent mess. And he _did not know_? Ridiculous.

Looking at Rogers, Tony sees the worried crease of his brow, gauges that it is an honest reaction, and it leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. As a supposedly good man, he should not have been so blind, and Tony is not in the mood to let him off easy.

“Well, we both learned something yesterday, then,” he drawls, turning his face just so that his split lip should be visible. “You’re a snitch, and I was right about my father being an asshole.”

Rogers flinches but Tony does not take any satisfaction from it. It is already done. At least he is cured from his unhealthy obsession with Rogers. At this rate, Rogers would probably simply march him to Howard while holding that gun to his head. Which would be downright horrifying, true, but for all that Tony does not care much for self-preservation, he does not want to get ruined at his father’s hands.

“Has this happened before?” Rogers asks, sounding so damned urgent that Tony cannot help but laugh. It is an ugly sound, full of sharp edges, and more honest than Tony intended.

He turns and opens a cupboard to get himself the biggest mug they have, staring into the small space in front of him to have an excuse not to look at Rogers. What does he think? That someone as spoiled and careless as Tony would simply stand here calmly the morning after a beating, makeup covering his bruises, if this was the first time Howard tried to drive a lesson home with his fists?

He is done with the small talk, and he definitely does not need any pity, not from the person who shoved him into the hands of the devil himself.

“Are you safe here?” Rogers keeps pushing, clearly deciding to ignore Tony’s selective muteness.

Hands tightening on the edge of the counter, Tony takes a deep breath. “But of course,” he says, his voice sickly sweet, which does not mix well with the bitterness welling up inside him. “This is all for my own good. But don’t worry, he likes you.”

Like all bullies, Howard is not very brave. If he cannot beat a problem into submission or throw enough money at it to keep it quiet, he knows how to compromise. Sadly, he never needed to make nice with Tony.

“Tony, if I –”

Tony has heard enough. He bangs the cupboard shut, deciding he does not need a mug, after all. Picking up the entire coffee pot – always full and hot, thanks to Jarvis – he heads towards the door, still refusing to look at Rogers. He does not know what is happening but he has no interest in it.

“You should really go back to work. Someone might try to attack Howard while you’re not there to protect him.” Because he cannot help himself, he adds with a wholly unamused smirk, “He’s very frail, you know. He needs you.”

Without waiting for an answer, Tony leaves. This is the last thing he needs. Judging on how angry Howard was the night before, he might do real damage if Tony runs Rogers off, after all – or worse, wins his sympathy.

He cannot even explain where that sudden change of mind comes from. For weeks now, Tony has been terrorizing Rogers, trying to push him into some unsavoury things – Rogers should be glad someone got him to stop. It should not matter how. Tony was being an ass and he got what was coming for him.

It just does not make sense, the way Rogers seemed actually shocked. But it does not matter. If Rogers did not anticipate what his tattling would do, he might refrain from it in the future. That is all Tony needs. He knows how to be invisible. It will not be a hardship to return to that. Not now that he knows Rogers will not help him feel alive.

All the way to his workshop, Tony clings to the steaming pot of coffee and tells himself that he did not get more than what he deserved. He should know better than to hurt others the way he has been hurt before.

Then again, Starks are notoriously slow learners – if someone does not know how to teach them. 

* * *

Suddenly, it is impossible to escape Rogers. Where before, Tony had to go out of his way to arrange accidental meetings with him, he now turns up basically everywhere Tony goes.

In the mornings, he sometimes puts a mug of coffee in Tony’s hands before he is awake enough to protest. For lunch, he often ends up in the kitchen, eating with Jarvis and therefore Tony if he does not forget the time while in the workshop. In the evenings, he often lurks in the hallways between Howard’s office and Tony’s room.

It is confusing, the way Rogers is always just there now, watching him, trying his hand at conversation that Tony steadfastly ignores. Tony hates games he does not know the rules of, and this one baffles him completely. Should Rogers not be happy?

Well, he obviously is not. Every day he eyes Tony’s bruises but not like he is satisfied by them but like he wants to make sure Tony is healing properly. And once they are gone, he does not stop looking, as if he does not want to miss any new ones.

It is driving Tony crazy, and it serves as just another proof that he cannot do anything right. He stopped harassing Rogers. That should be a win for everybody. Instead, Rogers has turned the tables on him. Only with less sexual assault and more pretence of caring. For once, Tony does not feel like a ghost in his house but like someone hunted.

“What do you want from me?” Tony snaps one night after dinner, when Jarvis has gone to bed and Rogers insisted on accompanying Tony to his room. As if Howard would jump out of the shadows and simply beat him up for no reason. He usually waits until Tony has done something wrong, which is very hard to do when he barely goes out of his room and workshop anymore to avoid running into Rogers. “You asked me to stop bothering you and now that I’m trying you keep following me around.”

Rogers has the audacity to look guilty, almost like he did not think Tony would notice. With a searching glance out in the hallway, he closes the kitchen door again, presumably to keep their conversation private. All Tony sees it as is that Rogers is locking them in together. He covertly takes a step back, brings the table between them, even though Rogers showed his distaste of physical altercations enough that Tony feels a bit ridiculous doing it.

“I don’t –” Rogers starts, then abandons whatever lie he had prepared. “I’m looking out for you.”

For a long moment, Tony cannot do anything but stare. He does not need anybody to look out for him, especially not someone who soured his relationship with his father another few degrees.

“You are what? And people say I’m crazy.” Tony pinches the bridge of his nose, willing Rogers to have vanished when he looks up again. No such luck, of course. “I don’t need you, or anybody, to coddle me.”

This is happening at least a decade too late. Tony has grown into this world, knows how to move in it, how to dodge, how to take a punch or ten.

“But your father –” Rogers trails off, apparently unable to even say it out loud.

Tony has no such compulsion and finishes for him, “Does what he’s always been doing.” Bitterness spreads in Tony’s chest as he looks at Rogers, the golden boy who somehow found a way into Howard’s good graces. With a scoff, he adds, “He might like you but you’re not so special that you started this.”

Rogers nods gravely as if Tony just proved his point. “That just makes it worse.”

The only thing worse about this situation is that Rogers bit off more than he can chew. He painted another target on Tony’s back and now he wants to take it back out of some misguided sense of honour.

“Listen, Rogers,” Tony says, wishing he was a head taller so he could make his point without having to look up at Rogers. “I don’t know where this sudden interest is coming from, but please shove it back up there. I’ve been handling this all my life and I don’t need you to overcomplicate it.”

Is it fair? No. Would Tony give up his comfortable lifestyle and money to have the kind of family he sometimes sees on tv, or even the sham they project for the press? Definitely. He is not a dreamer, though, not when it comes to people and feelings. His head makes up machines and he builds them perfectly. Everything else escapes him. He has come to terms with that a long time ago.

“It’s not right,” Rogers says, sounding like a petulant child. The only thing missing is him crossing his arms in front of him and stomping his foot.

It would be amusing if they were not arguing about Tony’s life. How dare Rogers judge them?

Tony takes a step forward then, not caring about keeping the table between them anymore. Perhaps Rogers needs a reminder of who he really is. Perhaps he needs to get a swing in himself to stop seeing Tony as a victim.

“Do you remember me harassing you?” Tony asks, a sneer on his face that feels wrong even as he plays it up. When Rogers frowns in response, he nods. “Good, because that’s who I am. Maybe accept that I deserve what I’m getting.”

The words taste foul in his own mouth. He has thought them a hundred times, mostly in his father’s voice. Saying them himself is another level, though, as if he is finally giving in to what Howard has been telling him all his life.

Rogers’ expression settles into something forbidding, his eyes hard and his lips pressed together. “Nobody deserves to be beaten by their parents.” His voice is brimming with something more than self-righteousness, almost as if this is not the first time Rogers sees himself confronted with a parent who uses less than proper disciplinary measures. Almost as if this is personal.

Shaking his head, Tony pushes those thoughts away. He knows better than to project his problems on others. Who would dare to beat someone like Rogers? And he does not want to look for parallels between them. They are nothing alike and all Tony wants is to be left in peace.

“No?” he asks, his tone sharp with mockery. “Then why’d you tattle to dear old Dad when I didn’t leave you alone?”

A hint of red colours Rogers’ cheeks than, less in embarrassment than sudden anger. None of it feels directed at Tony, though. “I thought he would _talk_ to you,” he snaps, voice slightly raised only to look guilty directly after.

It should not bring Tony any satisfaction to make Rogers lose his composure after all. In fact, he should busy himself with calming Rogers’ nerves, convince him that everything is just fine in this house and he should never ever talk to anyone about it because this was simply a one-time lapse in judgement and they are all living in perfect paradise the rest of the time.

Instead, he puts a hand on his hip, smiles as cockily as he dares, and asks, “And you really believe talking would’ve stopped me?” He makes it sound like something to be proud of. If he needs to, he can play the rich heir routine well. Rules do not apply to him, and thus _normal_ has never been in reach. “I don’t listen to anybody unless I’m made to.”

Perhaps the suggestiveness in his tone was a little too much, for instead of furthering Rogers’ anger, he now looks at Tony with pity on his face. That is the last thing Tony wants. Pity has never made anything better, has never soothed his bruises or fixed any injustice.

“Maybe nobody has ever treated you in a way that made them worth listening to.”

Tony’s hand falls to his side listlessly as he stares at Rogers. He sounds serious, like he really means his words. How hard can it be to understand that Tony is _not a victim_?

“Are you serious right now?” Tony asks, his voice too shrill for him to keep up the pretence of being calm. “Why would you defend me? What I did in the garage was basically sexual assault.”

Perhaps Rogers does not understand that him sympathizing with Tony is more dangerous than them being at odds. Howard understands people disliking Tony because that is what he himself does, because he does not see a single redeeming quality in his own son. If he finds out that Rogers has, for some reason, changed sides and now cares for Tony’s well-being, everything will be so much worse.

Tony is just not sure how to tell Rogers that without achieving the very thing that cannot happen. He does not want Rogers’ pity, does not want to give Howard even more reason to be mad at him.

“I wouldn’t have let you do anything,” Rogers replies stiffly, his back too straight.

It is all Tony can do not to gape at him. That is not a reasonable response. Tony’s intent was clear, no matter what actually happened. Now that he is sober and knows Rogers a bit better, he feels guilty about that night, about throwing himself at Rogers who clearly did not want him to. He should know better than to not take a _no_ for what it is, even drunk out of his mind.

“That doesn’t change the fact that I tried.” This is wrong too, Tony needing to convince someone else that he did wrong. People are usually so eager to do that, even when he has not done anything. Why is Rogers suddenly so adamant on trying to see something good in Tony?

Rogers nods and Tony is hopeful that they can be done with this, that Rogers accepts now to leave things alone. Instead, he leans against the wall next to the kitchen door and looks at Tony with new interest, too pointed to be completely natural.

“You were awfully fixated on my gun,” Rogers says, almost nonchalantly if not for the intent in his eyes.

This is the time to run, Tony realizes, before they get any closer to the demons living rent-free inside his head. How could he explain his unhealthy obsession with feeling _anything_ other than the constant numb dread following him through his everyday life?

“Wouldn’t you too if someone pointed it at your head?” Tony retorts, careful to keep his face neutral. He wonders how to get closer to the door without making it obvious he is fleeing. More than anything, he wants Rogers to forget this topic, to not realize the significance of it.

Rogers hums as if he agrees, but his expression never changes. “You were eager, though,” he says, never once taking his eyes off Tony’s face. “You asked me to do it again.”

That was a mistake, clearly. If Tony were not so single-mindedly focused on his own pleasure, he might have realized that this would only ask for trouble.

“I’m not sure why you’re surprised,” Tony drawls. No sense in denying things now. “Madness runs in the family. Howard and I – we’re not good people. We deserve each other.”

Rogers twitches, clearly unhappy with Tony’s non-answer but less so with him comparing himself to Howard. “That’s not true,” he says with so much conviction that Tony now feels pity for _him_.

A few weeks ago, Tony thought it would be fun to corrupt Rogers, the upstanding, golden soldier boy, the prude who would not touch Tony even though he presented himself on a silver plate. But now – he begins to understand what Howard sees in Rogers. They truly are not good people but that does not mean they cannot yearn for goodness, for something pure in their lives. And Rogers is _good_.

“Just leave me alone, Captain,” Tony says as he walks towards the door, hiding every last trace of his emotions behind the uncaring mask his mother taught him. He does not care whether he appears rude. Rogers clearly does not understand that being around Starks could ruin him, but Tony does not want any part in that.

“I’m just trying to help,” Rogers says, looking confused at where he went wrong. Close as Tony is now, he even thinks he sees some hurt in Rogers’ eyes. 

“Well, you’re not.”

All the way down the hall, Tony feels Rogers watching him. He does not follow, though, and that is all that matters. Perhaps they have finally come to an accord now to leave each other alone.

* * *

For almost a week, life gets back to normal. Rogers sticks to his duties and Tony is left to his own devices. No stalking, no lurking in the halls as if that would actually protect him from Howard’s wrath. Tony keeps looking over his shoulder because this is too good to be true. Still, everything remains calm.

Until, late one night, there is a knock on his door.

Tony knows it has to be Rogers. Howard is not in the habit of knocking, or of coming to Tony instead of summoning him like a dog, and Jarvis’ knocking is different, a sound Tony knows by heart because it always promised safety.

Unsure what to do, Tony does not call out but Rogers is clearly not in a mood to be denied because he comes in anyway, pausing shortly when he finds Tony lying on his bed with notes scattered all around him.

“What do you want, Rogers?” Tony asks a little too sharply. He thought they moved beyond this. Everything was fine, so why does Rogers have to ruin it by seeking him out?

Not answering immediately, Rogers closes the door and then leans against it, almost like he is guarding it. Only then does he look back at Tony.

“I want – I thought we could pick up where we left off in the garage.”

Tony barely resists the urge to pinch himself. He is sure he is dreaming. What other explanation could there be for Rogers standing in his bedroom saying that exact string of words? At a closer look, though, there is red creeping up Rogers’ neck and his posture radiates discomfort. His shoulders are hunched, his hands hidden behind his body but probably clenched.

“What on Earth are you doing?” Tony is sure one wrong move from him will send Rogers running. As it should, because this is pure madness.

As if emboldened by Tony’s bafflement, Rogers’ expression settles into something more determined. “I could pull my gun on you. Make you do it.”

The urge to laugh scratches in Tony’s throat, but he swallows it down, certain that hysteria will not help to solve this impossible situation he has somehow found himself in.

What is happening? How did Rogers interpret Tony’s plea to be left alone to come full circle and catapult them right back into that scene in the garage?

To win some time to think, Tony picks up the notes around him, stacks them more or less neatly. Then he forces himself to look back up, almost choking on incredulity.

“Your response to me telling you to back off is to force me to rape you?” he asks, his tone harsh and meant to cut. Still he takes no satisfaction when Rogers flinches.

“What?” Rogers sounds aghast, like the thought never even occurred to him. “No.”

Maybe he really has no clue. Maybe he thinks that if he comes here and pulls his gun and lies that he wants this, it would make this anything less than rape if Tony went for it. Maybe he thinks that saying yes for another’s sake, no matter his own feelings, would make it okay. That still leaves the question of _why_.

Tony wishes he could stand up to make himself feel less vulnerable, but he needs to have this conversation without making Rogers think he is getting anywhere. So, he stays on his bed, too small and too vulnerable and tries to make Rogers understand that there is no fixing him, especially not like this.

“What else could this be?” he asks, and it takes effort to keep his voice calm. “You were clearly not interested when I was throwing myself at you and you’re not now either.”

Stubborn like a mule, Rogers frowns. “I’m here,” he says as if that proves anything.

“And you look like someone kicked your puppy,” Tony points out, growing desperate.

Seducing someone while looking like he ate something foul does not usually work. Especially not since they have been here before.

“I don’t –” Rogers shakes his head and settles more firmly against the wood in his back. He looks earnest, almost eager now that they are back to using words instead of stupid gestures. “I think you want to give up control.”

That is not what Tony expected to come out of Rogers’ mouth. It makes no sense either. This is going in a direction he does not like at all.

“Because I have so much control over my life?” Tony asks, feverishly thinking about how he can stop this conversation before it goes on any further. The last thing he needs is to be psychoanalyzed by his father’s bodyguard. Some boxes should better remain closed.

Again, that faint blush. This is even worse knowing that Rogers has no idea what he is doing either.

“I mean you want to give up control in a setting you can trust,” Rogers amends, making everything worse.

Tony desperately wants to laugh or throw something or jump out of his window. He is not made for conversations like this.

“Whatever shrink you were talking to, they are wrong,” he says, almost pleading Rogers to see reason. “And even if they weren’t, why would I trust you? I didn’t when you were just a stranger in our garage and I don’t now, knowing you’re my father’s new favourite toy. So, if you’d please leave me the fuck alone.”

Tony breathes heavily, certain that he has made his point in a way Rogers understands. He seems like the type who is adamant on keeping personal boundaries – and yet he came _here_.

Something happens with Rogers then, causing Tony’s confidence to melt away. His back straightens until he seems to stand a foot taller. His face closes off and becomes forbidding, the way it was that first night. He opens his mouth but then thinks better of it. Instead, he pulls out his gun with a practiced movement and points it directly at Tony.

In the half-shadow near the door, Rogers looks almost menacing, demanding in a way that leaves Tony’s mouth dry.

“What –” he tries to ask but Rogers cuts him of.

“I said I would like to pick up where we left off.” Rogers even sounds like he did in the garage, only instead of pushing Tony away he seems to draw him in, beckoning him closer with a clear threat in his posture.

Tony does not know what is happening, what Rogers hopes to achieve with this charade. If he had come in like this, dark and not giving a single inch, Tony is not sure he would not have simply given in. It certainly would not be a hardship. Tony might not be drunk out of his mind right now, and he knows Rogers is off-limit, but Rogers has never lost his allure.

Rogers did _not_ come in like this, however, but nervous and stumbling over his words, clearly thinking he owes Tony something. Almost as if he thinks he can fix Tony. Or give him what he presumably wants.

So, that is what this is then. Rogers is not just a good man, he is a _martyr_ , ready to go down for what he thinks is a good cause. Here is the thing, though, no matter the sacrifice, Tony is beyond saving. He is not so far gone, though, that he will let Rogers try. _You ruin everything you touch_ , his father said, and Tony will prove him wrong, even if only about that one little thing.

Slowly, and without even glancing at the gun, Tony climbs off the bed and walks towards Rogers. He does not do anything about his crumpled pyjamas but keeps his eyes fixed on his target. That way, he sees the surprise flickering over Rogers’ face and how he adjusts his stance to set his feet wider apart, almost like he is steeling himself for what is to come. This is obviously not a well-thought-out plan.

Within moments, Tony is in front of Rogers. He plays with the thought of going down to his knees, after all. They could both enjoy it, certainly, but he is not that much of an inconsiderate asshole.

Still not looking at the gun, Tony plucks it out of Rogers’ hold. There is not even any resistance. Out of habit, Tony tries to take out the magazine only to find it empty. Confused, he looks down at his hands. Definitely not loaded.

“Why’d you take the bullets out?”

That might not be the most pressing questions, considering what Rogers just tried to do. It is the easiest thing for Tony’s brain to latch onto. Much less complicated than trying to disentangle the entire mess beyond that.

Before him, Rogers crumbles. Gone is the projected self-confidence and the hard stare. Instead, he looks like he just ran a marathon. And got jumped by a bear.

“I didn’t want to accidentally shoot you,” Rogers says, sounding so offended that Tony snorts out a laugh.

Intent on giving Rogers a chance to breathe, he turns back towards his bed and puts the gun down on the nightstand. Only then, at a safe distance, does he look back at Rogers.

“Accidentally as in because you feared you might enjoy it or in case your disgust became too much?” he asks, still trying hard for nonchalance despite his racing thoughts.

Both are likely. Tony prides himself on his prowess in bed and he is sure Rogers could have enjoyed himself. But he also knows the trigger-happy kind that never gets out of their skin. He would never let those hold guns anywhere close to him. They usually do enough damage with just their fists.

“I wouldn’t be disgusted,” Rogers says earnestly, still for some reason offended. “I’ve been with men before.”

“That’s – not what I expected,” Tony says, taken aback, and looks at Rogers in a new light. Not because of the words themselves but because of how easily he admitted it.

Staring down at his hands, now that they are empty, Rogers leans back against the door as if his legs are too tired to hold him upright anymore. “I just don’t react kindly to being assaulted by drunk strangers,” he says quietly, almost defending himself. “Especially when I’m working.”

This is the first time Rogers said _assault_ and it hits harder when he does it, even though Tony admitted it before. “I’m sorry,” he says and means it. Rogers is likely not aware what a novelty that is. Starks do not make a habit of apologizing, after all.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Rogers replies quickly, looking nervous again as if he is afraid he said something wrong.

At least, Tony thinks, he is not the only one with issues here. “But I do. I _am_ sorry.” Jarvis would be so proud of him, although Tony is rather glad he is not here to witness this. “Sometimes, too often really, I take things too far.”

Rogers nods but still with too much understanding in the gesture. “I mean, I get that you need an outlet every now and then.”

That is not exactly the direction Tony thought they were going. How is Rogers still searching for excuses for Tony’s behaviour? Howard is not the kind to like saints and yet he brought Rogers home anyway.

“All right, that’s enough of a heart-to-heart,” Tony says a bit too forcefully. “I wish you a good night. Let’s never speak about this again.”

If it would not make him seem too vulnerable, he would crawl back on his bed and under the blanket right now, no matter that Rogers is watching. Too much honesty and soul-searching really just make him want to hide away for a week or two.

“But –” Rogers starts. He has undoubtedly something stupidly noble to add, but Tony has heard enough.

“Nope, we’re done here. Shush,” Tony says and makes a shooing motion with his hands. It occurs to him that he should probably hand Rogers’ gun back to him but he does not know how to do that without making things awkward again. He will just leave it somewhere in the morning.

He turns to walk around his bed again, glancing down at his notes and cannot remember what they were even about. He will certainly not get any more work done this night. When he looks back up again, Rogers is still there, has not even moved.

“What if I came by tomorrow night without the gun?” Rogers asks quietly but firmly enough that Tony almost throws his hands into the air in defeat.

“Why are you suddenly so interested in sex?” he snaps, wondering what new strategy that is supposed to be. “You clearly weren’t before.”

Rogers inclines his head, which is not really an admission that Tony is right but at least he does not protest it either. Instead, he says something worse. “We could go out to have dinner together. To talk.”

Tony stares. At some point, this entire thing went terribly wrong. It might have been when Tony drunkenly decided to mess with the new employee, but he thinks it has more to do with Rogers as a person, who cannot leave well enough alone.

“I don’t need your pity,” Tony bites out, suddenly tired of this conversation and Rogers’ presence. “Don’t waste your time on me.”

_You’re here for Howard_ , he wants to snap. _Don’t make things worse by choosing me_. There is not even a reason to choose him. Tony has nothing to offer but more grief.

As if Rogers read his thoughts and simply needs to prove him wrong, he says, “You’re not a waste of time.” Tony’s parents and dozens of reporters beg to differ. “You do need to get out of this house more.”

Tony scoffs. “I get out plenty.” He has not done so as often since Rogers started working here, if only because he was too busy terrorizing him. Usually, though, nothing much keeps him in this house.

“Without getting raging drunk and ending up in strangers’ beds who’ll only sell pictures and stories to the press as soon as you’ve stumbled out of their home,” Rogers says with clear distaste.

Tony winces, although he is well aware of his lifestyle. “Congratulations,” he sneers. “You just summed up my entire life. Are we done here?”

What else is he to do in his chase for some real human connection, for someone to see him instead of an easy meal ticket or a good fuck? At least he is not naïve enough anymore to believe the pretty lies people whisper into his ears. Everybody wants something, and more often than not they think he can provide it.

For just a moment, Rogers looks taken aback, but his expression clears quickly. “Tomorrow at seven?” he asks as if Tony had given any sign that he did not mean what he said. “Jarvis told me you like Italian. Or cheeseburgers. We can do either. I’m buying.”

Jarvis, the traitor. Of course, he would be thrilled if someone like Rogers would show interest in Tony. He has been nagging Tony for years to find some real friends.

That is not what mellows Tony’s resistance. The easy way Rogers offered to pay does. Nobody ever pays when Tony is around. And why would they? That is, more often than not, the only reason he got invited.

“You don’t give up, do you?” Tony asks, desperate to keep his tone begrudging.

“Never.” Rogers grins and that makes him look so much younger and, impossibly, more attractive too, like he shed some invisible burden.

Tony finds that he wants to get to know that version of Rogers. “All right, tomorrow at seven,” he sighs, wondering what he thinks he is doing. “But this is a one-time deal.”

He agrees only to get Rogers off his back. He does not need a nanny, and there is surely nothing else to it. Rogers wants to fix him but he will stop soon enough once he realizes he will not get anywhere.

This is not an offer of friendship. And Tony does not need a friend anyway. He is not lonely, and he is not so desperate that he wants to burden another employee with his constant presence. Poor Jarvis suffers enough.

One meal and they are done.

Later, Tony will look back at that moment and thank whatever insanity made him accept Steve’s offer. Turns out even a Stark needs friends. And Steve is the best kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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